


Broken Glass: Part Thirteen – The Other Side</p>

by motsureru



Series: Broken Glass [13]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Awkwardness, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Law Enforcement, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-01
Updated: 2007-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:29:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motsureru/pseuds/motsureru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for all of season 1. This is a continuation after Season 1, Sylar/Mohinder-centric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Glass: Part Thirteen – The Other Side</p>

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [hugh](http://hugh.livejournal.com/) for beta work~ ****

**Teaser:** _Sylar had said the words like he was quoting a piece of fiction, a classic long since considered dull and abandoned to the farthest shelves of even the most dedicated readers. Mohinder wiped the dust away from such volumes with his relentless desire to peruse the pages._

 

.13The Other Side

 

“Maybe you never gave anyone the chance to miss him.”

When Sylar tilted his head back up there was a light to his eyes. Sylar lifted his hand and reached out to Mohinder, ignoring the slight movement away that he made. Sylar threaded those strong fingers into Mohinder’s hair, hooking his thumb around the man’s ear. Mohinder could feel the scrape of fingernails against his scalp and the tremble they caused to crawl down his spine.

“Someone should have told Gabriel that a long time ago,” came the hushed confession. Sylar’s body leaned forward, and without hesitation or permission he tilted his head and stole Mohinder’s lips with his own. Mohinder could feel that Sylar’s lips were fuller and softer than he imagined; they moved slowly, testing for a reaction.

Mohinder gasped and pulled back, but Sylar’s grip on his wrist tugged him forward again and the unintentional parting of his lips was met with Sylar’s insistent ones. Sylar moved his lips smoothly and when Mohinder finally pulled back far enough for their mouths to divide, his own remained parted for breaths while their eyes met. It was Mohinder’s eyes that were wide and shocked; both of them were speechless.

A moment passed. Then Sylar closed his eyes and brought their lips together again. Mohinder’s cheeks were growing hot and changing color, his heart pounding in his chest. It took him several seconds, but with apprehensive movements Mohinder’s lips began to respond, kissing back timidly. 

Sylar took it as an invitation and soon his other hand was taking Mohinder’s free wrist, pushing him back until their weight made the bed beneath them creak and Sylar was hovering above Mohinder’s form, back to mattress. Sylar’s lips became more adamant in those kisses and Mohinder found himself lost in the sensual rhythm being drawn out of him. His lips responded in kind, mind becoming blissfully blank. The way their mouths tilted and sought each other’s dips and curves was utterly absorbing, and before Mohinder could give it a second thought, his wrists were being pushed back higher and held above him.

Intoxicated by the way Sylar’s stubble dragged across his chin and tickled his neck, Mohinder felt a sharp pain- a bite into the soft, dark flesh of his throat that made him gasp heatedly. Sylar’s tongue was then teasing away Mohinder’s pain, and his body gave a jerk-

 

And Mohinder opened his eyes. His legs had shot out beneath him, kicking and disturbing the table he leaned against. Mohinder sat up slowly, feeling his skin peel back from the pages of the book he’d dozed off against. He’d toppled his empty coffee cup- useless in keeping him awake, apparently.

Reaching up to rub an eye, Mohinder felt a pain in his back and a rather uncomfortable stiffness in his jeans. The ache he felt in his lower region made him give fleeting glimpse about the coffee shop; no one was looking. He straightened his pants a little, personally mortified, but luckily no one had noticed a thing. If he cried out during his nightmares, as Sylar had once told him, he could only imagine what noises he would have made if that heated dream had continued. 

Mohinder pushed his fingers into his black curls and took a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly to pinch between them. Of all the things, of all the times… what was his mind trying to tell him? Or perhaps it wasn’t a matter of the mind, just a matter of the body. Had he spent so many nights alone that being physically close to anyone made him want to be with… just _anyone_? Mohinder wanted to cling to those remnants of hatred and disappointment he still held- he wanted to not _need_ Sylar for anything. And yet... when he looked at his watch, he felt guilty for having been away from home so long. What he had come to call a home with that man. Mohinder sighed and closed the book in front of him. He stood, cracking his back, and reveled momentarily in the heat of the café while he returned the book to its shelf. 

There was a payphone at the far end of the shop and Mohinder had finally formulated in his mind what he would say when he used it. Taking from his wallet the number he needed and from his pocket a couple of quarters, Mohinder turned his back to the café and huddled in the small hallway with the telephones. This time the number of rings was only one.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Bennet, it’s Mohinder Suresh.”

“Ah, Mr. Suresh. It’s been a while. I tried to contact you, but your home number seems to be disconnected and Molly Walker answered your cellular.” 

Mohinder had unplugged the phone himself; the last thing he wanted to worry about was that Sylar might answer it on impulse or purposefully intercept a caller. That was dangerous. “Yes, I apologize, Mr. Bennet. I’ve been shuffling my bank accounts around, and the company has been rather unhelpful.”

“I wanted to contact you sooner, actually.” Bennet was the one to drop the pretenses, and Mohinder thought he heard the scuffle of feet and the closing of a door. “Have you been following the news?”

Mohinder felt his teeth set on edge. So Bennet knew. He must have been aware all along of Gabriel Gray, just like so many others… and perhaps Sylar was telling the truth about Bennet’s supposed torture. “Yes, I’m quite aware. The police came to my house.”

“I thought they might,” Bennet replied, “When I heard about the murder in Queens I thought you would have some time; I didn’t know what sort of trail Sylar left behind connecting to your father. What did the police say?”

“They didn’t have much to go on.” Mohinder checked over his shoulder for a second, but all he saw was a girl sweeping the floors. “I told them I didn’t know who Gabriel Gray was- that my father had many contacts for his research. I don’t think they bought it enough to stop paying me visits. I don’t know what they’ll dig up, but…” He was hesitant to call it the end.

Bennet drew in a breath on his side of the phone and took a moment to consider his options. “…Would you be willing to leave New York?”

Mohinder blinked. “Leave? You mean you want me to run? Doesn’t that seem like a perfectly awful idea, if the police think I’m guilty of something?” Somehow that plan seemed incredibly illogical at first thought …but then again it might be better than concealing a known criminal in the only state he was known in. 

“It’s not the police I’m worried about,” Bennet corrected. “It’s the FBI. Audrey Hanson is still working the Sylar case in Manhattan, now, out for revenge for Parkman’s injuries most likely. If she links up with the Queens cops working this case in Brooklyn and they realize your name connects at both crime scenes, you’ll be taken in just as quickly as if you ran in the first place.”

The truth of the matter sank in immediately and Mohinder sighed heavily. “What can you offer me in the way of help, Mr. Bennet?”

“Give me some time, a day or two, maybe, to arrange a safehouse for you. Transportation I’m not sure of yet.”

It sounded promising. At least more promising than any of Mohinder’s other options, lately. He nodded to himself. “I appreciate your help, Mr. Bennet. But what can I give you for all these favors? I’m putting you at just as great a risk, I’m sure.”

“Are you continuing your father’s research?” Bennet asked in return, the words flowing easily off his tongue.

“I-… Yes… I am,” Mohinder replied warily. In late hours, when Sylar slept. In times he felt safer than others.

“Then that’s all you need to do,” the man said simply. “The benefits of helping you are the benefits of protecting and understanding these special people all over the world, my daughter included. You’re protecting the future. Please trust me and the hand I hold out to you, Mr. Suresh.”

Those words should not have felt like such a flood of relief to Mohinder, but somehow, in light of all the stress Sylar was putting him through, it felt wonderful to be able to rely on someone, anyone. “Thank you, Mr. Bennet. I owe you far more than my father’s work. I-… When you need to reach me again… call my home number. Hopefully it will be fixed by tomorrow.”

“Alright. It was good to hear from you, Mr. Suresh. I’ll contact you when I have things arranged.”

“Thank you again, Mr. Bennet. Goodbye.” Mohinder replaced the phone on the receiver and took a deep breath. As he crossed the floor of the café and pushed on the exit door, he closed his eyes for a moment to reluctantly embrace the frigid night.

 

He wouldn’t call it panic. He wouldn’t call it panic; alarm, maybe, but not panic. Mohinder had been gone for hours and hours. Dinner had come and gone, but no man besides Sylar had produced himself at the empty table. The temperature outside had dropped drastically, with the chance of snow threatening even city walls, and Sylar had watched a few errant flakes spiral down before the cold of the sill was too much for him to endure. 

Sylar found himself draping a blanket over his fully-clothed figure and taking a seat in the living room at Mohinder’s desk. As he leaned back in the man’s chair and stared blankly at his closed laptop, Sylar nibbled a thumbnail. The tick tick tick of the clocks in the room were like heartbeats. Tiny, unnerving heartbeats. They pulsed and thrived on the quiet, and though he would have spitefully shattered the time pieces, Sylar knew that if he did he might only become consumed by the urge to fix them once again. 

Gabriel was an impulse now as often as Sylar was and it was Mohinder’s fault. Sylar felt trapped in between them: Sylar aggravated, infuriated, and charmed Mohinder. Gabriel flattered, soothed, and encouraged him. Whether or not he wanted to admit it, Mohinder needed them both. Sylar was sure of it. Sylar _made_ sure of it. Putting on Gabriel was a tedious and meticulous task, but he could do it if it meant Mohinder might trust him, confide in him. And though Sylar was not sure why, he had come to the conclusion that it was Sylar, not Gabriel, that he wore when Mohinder _desired_ him. When that mysterious light kindled behind Mohinder’s eyes, whenever Sylar had peeked out from behind Zane’s mask… Those were the times when that irritatingly enigmatic look captured Mohinder’s face, that unknown and beguiling look that Sylar wanted to sink himself into.

Sylar bit down hard on his nail, shivering a little beneath his blanket. Mohinder was doing something to him, changing him and molding him consciously and unconsciously through his efforts. Sylar felt it, felt the way he was unwillingly yielding… But he was determined that this street would go two ways if it must be traveled. The thought that Mohinder was affecting him more easily than when he had been guarded as Zane gnawed away at his nerves, but somehow he didn’t want to resent the man for it. He wanted Mohinder to feel it too, and know his frustration. The only way he’d gotten anywhere so far was by being persistent in those things physical, those things that befuddled and frightened Mohinder because they were exciting. He could break down Mohinder just as much. If Sylar had to be more forward, if he had to steal the things he wanted… Well, he had killed for less before. Everything was just a matter of time.

Sylar let his eyes fall back into focus over the laptop on the desk. Mohinder was typing again, late at night, before bed. When he thought Sylar was sleeping, Mohinder made a slow noise, like the sound of a million tiny insect feet lifting from a smooth surface. Millions of insects peeling away like Velcro, then the rough snapping of metal scraping metal. It puzzled Sylar, but he had not been ready yet to pry. Sylar stared blankly at the machine before him. Then he gave a terse, threatening glare at the device he resented so greatly and stood from the chair to go make tea. The chill of winter lingering in this heatless apartment set him on edge.

 

When the door finally opened and Mohinder stepped in, the first thing he did was look to the kitchen- no matter what the hour, he seemed to never be disappointed if he looked there first for Sylar.

“…Welcome back,” Sylar said as he set out two empty cups on the table. “…Must be cold. Tea’s almost ready,” he murmured, leaning back against the counter and bundling the blanket around his shoulders close.

Mohinder stood in silence, rubbing his arms encased in dark red wool, breathing for a moment longer into his loud-colored scarf. He locked the bolts behind himself, and though he walked towards the kitchen, he was hesitant to sit at the table. He merely let his hands fall onto the back of the chair and hold it. “I… need to know something,” Mohinder began, looking alternately between the tea cups and Sylar’s reclining figure. 

Sylar found the apprehension on Mohinder’s face was backed by a quiet resolve he couldn’t help but admire. Mohinder’s veracity was something he could rarely mask. “What do you need to know?” Sylar replied, turning to the stove as the kettle sounded.

“You,” Mohinder stated with more determination. Sylar’s hand stopped before it grasped the handle of the kettle.

“Me,” he echoed.

“You.” 

Mohinder’s hands gripped the back of the chair as he drew in a breath, deliberating over the words before they took form. “…I need to know… that I should be doing this.” Mohinder shivered, pulling the chair out and finally sitting in it. The wood was hard and icy and gave him no comfort to take. “I need to know that I’m not making a mistake. I need to know that I can live with waking up every morning knowing I’m not free any longer because I made a sacrifice worth _something_ on _some_ level. I- ... I can’t feel like this is for nothing, or that I’ve wrongfully harbored a-”

“My name was Gabriel Gray,” Sylar cut him off in a calm voice. When Mohinder looked up again, the tea was being poured into one cup and then the next. “I was the watch-making son of a watch-maker and never amounted to anything more until Chandra walked through my door and changed my life.” Pave the road with Gabriel Gray and Mohinder would not venture down the treacherous path to Sylar too soon.

Sylar’s gaze lifted to watch Mohinder after he set down the kettle, but Sylar’s gaze was not really there at all. He spoke with a strange sense of detachment. He had said the words of Gabriel Gray like he was quoting a piece of fiction, a classic long since considered dull and abandoned to the farthest shelves of even the most dedicated readers. Mohinder wiped the dust away from such volumes with his relentless desire to peruse the aged pages. 

“…Your father…”

“Was a good man. A dull man. But a kind man. He died a long, long time ago. Before I graduated high school.” Sylar slid his chair back and sat with a careless thud, hands immediately seeking the warmth of his tea cup. “My mother was a nag. A good woman. But a nag. They raised me Catholic, and you’d be wrong to think I started any of this without feeling a stitch of guilt. I never went to college; I worked in his shop, and it was my mother I cooked for.”

Staring at Sylar over his forgotten cup of tea, Mohinder watched the tendrils of steam lick upwards towards the man’s chin and disappear into the faint gray puffs of his breath in the cold air. Sylar’s eyes never shied from Mohinder’s, and when they met again, Mohinder’s eyes never left Sylar’s. That distance, that shell Mohinder had always predicted… he imagined he could see it now. Sylar wore it even against himself. Unable to help it, Mohinder felt his chest ache. He forgot to breathe.

Sylar waited until he was sure Mohinder would say nothing before he spoke again. “There’s not much more to Gabriel Gray than that. Your father taught me to aspire to more than I was, like I always wanted to before my parents shackled me into their lives. But I can’t blame them. I accepted everything as it came, and that’s why the remorse I feel for becoming what I am is relatively little.”

Finally, Mohinder broke the calm with a shake of his head. “But aspirations… making your own way in the world… stalking and murdering people are far from that! You can’t expect me—anyone—to believe that your lack of confidence justifies such a rash string of actions.” Mohinder’s words came out passionately with a hint of criticism as usual, second thoughts indeed left second to his words. 

But instead of retorting in insult, Sylar merely shook his head back, his dark brown eyes locked with Mohinder’s. “You don’t understand… Chandra said it in his book… it’s _evolutionary imperative_ … When I saw Brian Davis I just… I _knew…_ A-” Sylar’s mouth hung open for a moment on that vowel, eyes squinting ever so slightly, as if he was so overwhelmed by the thought on the tip of his tongue that it caught on its way out. “And how could I stop it when it felt so _clear…_ I understood it perfectly… I saw it like I just had to… to wipe away the fog on the glass…” he spoke like a man mystified at his own ignorance and baffled by his realizations all over again.

Mohinder’s heart skipped when he realized he held his breath and he felt another shiver overtake him. “Understood what…?”

“That I’d know it all… if I could just look inside.”

The look on Sylar’s face sent a tremor through Mohinder’s body, tingling all the way down to his toes. It was his earnestness, wrapped in intensity, which always captivated Mohinder; the way Sylar could stare at you and speak like he’d dug the words out from his very soul and presented them as a long lost treasure. Mohinder began to wonder if Sylar was not the key to his father’s research in more ways than one.

When he finally tore his eyes away from Sylar, a strange, mysterious little smile quirked at Mohinder’s lips. It would be too much to press further. “Please… don’t make me sorry,” –was all he managed. He scooted back his chair, leaving his tea untouched, and left the room without looking back to see Sylar’s lingering gaze. He prepared for bed first, brushing his teeth and changing into comfortable pants, though his sweater he kept on as guard against the chilly temperature. He looked forward to the heat promised to the building by tomorrow- the winter had been harsh enough on him already.

Mohinder listened for a while beneath his blanket to the sounds of Sylar cleaning up the kitchen and replacing the kettle on its hook. He heard the sink, the rustle of a toothbrush, and finally the lights turning out before Sylar flopped with a slight grunt onto the hallway futon. With all the events of the day and night running through his head, Mohinder drifted slowly off into the realm of sleep, consciousness sinking further and further ever so slightly with each moment and shiver.

Then suddenly there was a movement-

A slight nudge-

Then the careful draping of another blanket over his own, making Mohinder curl up tighter into the more reassured warmth. Mohinder thought for a moment how sweet it was- he knew vaguely in the back of his mind that there were only two blankets in the apartment. 

It was when both lifted and a cold breeze of air shot beneath those covers that Mohinder was pulled back to reality. The mattress gave a groan with a second distribution of weight, and a faint shuffling occurred, followed by the adjustment again of the blankets.

Mohinder’s breath caught and he looked over his shoulder sharply. “Wh-what are you doing?!” he whispered in a harsh voice, scooting away as he saw Sylar’s outline nestling under the covers in the dark. “Get out of my bed!”

“Are you crazy, Mohinder? That futon’s near the window- it’s _freezing_ in there!” came the incredulous whisper back through chattering teeth. Sylar shifted about, trying to ensure his long legs wouldn’t make his feet stick out of the ends of the blankets.

“You have a blanket!” Mohinder retorted, feeling his face grow hot when Sylar’s feet brushed against his own in the mayhem.

“And now we have two! More layers, more body heat. It’s scientifically proven we’ll be warmer. Stop being such a baby,” Sylar grumbled, adjusting his pillow and moving onto his side, covers to his nose.

“…” 

Mohinder found he couldn’t really retaliate with a good argument other than his own embarrassment. And though Sylar’s presence may not have been exactly welcome, it already felt twice as warm with the other nearby. Scientifically proven, was it? Mohinder gave a wry frown and turned his back to the man, moving to the furthest edge of the mattress in a fetal position. Not once in these past weeks could Mohinder have ever imagined himself grateful for Sylar sneaking into his bed.

  



End file.
